cheese
by damn expensive eggs
Summary: Craig Tucker finds himself in a pickle when he ends up in a police station, in lingerie, orange-handed, guilty of manslaughter, on Christmas. Craig/Tweek. AU. Co-written with glow vomit. also writing this with original characters, may or may not update ever.
1. muenster

**authors' notes:** BIG BANG SUX  
WE ARE DANNY DYER'S CHOCOLATE HOMUNCULUS

warnings: manslaughter, attempted suicide, drug use and addiction etc., and inauthentic italian cuisine.

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chapter one: muenster

[craig]

I am a monster. A hairy, grotesque beast. A revolting creature you hear creepy documentaries about on late night television.

Except I'm in lingerie, so maybe I'd be a little less threatening than Bigfoot if I crawled out of the shadows. I don't think I'd be much of a threat to your camping trip. I'd probably just take your food. You'd be like, "Help, help, there is a fat man in a frilly skirt scarfing down our honey ham." This outfit is not my first choice for stealing honey ham.

This outfit was my last choice for making money. At this point, I am more than pretty sure that this choice is not taking me places.

Well, it did take me one place.

I'm in drag at a police station. I'm in a cold chair, handcuffed, shaking, crying, sitting in a little puddle of my own terrified piss. Also, it's Christmas. First, I'm like, this happens to everyone at least once. This is totally okay. Everything's gonna be okay. Then I'm like, this is not totally okay. People don't get away with this shit. This doesn't happen to everyone at least once.

"All right, boys," the cop begins. All right. All right, he said. No. All wrong.

Kenny is sitting next to me. He's in drag, too. But he doesn't look nearly as ridiculous as I do. He's hairless, for one thing. If he does have hair on his body, it's sleek and blonde and invisible, the kind of attractive fuzz people like touching because you don't know it's there until you caress him.

Ending up in a police station with him is predictable. Though I always imagined being the one to pick him up. I'd smile at the officer, saying, "Silly Kenny, he just likes to whip his dick out in public and wave it around—I tried to warn him." Like being his mom at the dean's office of a high school. I don't know why he'd call me of all people, though. Maybe I'd just hoped he would.

Of course, if there were a bail involved, I wouldn't be able to help him out much. Actually, I couldn't do a damn thing, not even picking him up, seeing as I don't even own a car. That was all part of the fantasy. I'd be his trusty first choice and I'd have a sweet ride.

But I definitely can't think of anyone who could save the both of us. Stripe, my angelic and comely guinea pig, would save us. But no one would listen to him. People don't get guinea pigs.

"All right, boys," says the cop. "It's picture day." He's got the camera set up in front of a small, grey backdrop and shit. Fuck. "You first, tubby."

He shouldn't be allowed to call me that. I stand up, and my panties are so far up my ass I can feel them tickling my prostate. I position in front of the camera, cherry lipstick smeared, mascara running. My eyeballs are still burning.

I wish he were holding an adorable stuffed duck to make me smile. I'm about to break down again.

"Smile," he says.

The camera flashes, and I make the face of a constipated frog whose dinner just flew away. A colorful medley of disappointment, anxiety, misery, and most essentially, constipation.

How I got here, exactly, is definitely a story worth telling, but I don't know who would want to hear it, and I don't know where to start.

I guess I could start with the lamp.

The lamp has been ruining my life since I met it at a fucking Target when I was seven years old. That was when it was still okay to talk to my mom.

She was looking for a lamp specifically. I pointed out how particularly ugly this lamp was, and she fell in love with it.

The base of the lamp was circular, and then it thinned out and curled up into metallic swirls that kinda surrounded what vaguely resembled a lighter brown pumpkin in the middle. The shade was beige, with fucking beads at the edges! Whose goddamn idea was that.

My mother found it gorgeous.

It'd match the living room, she said, it'd tie the room together, she said, it's so perfect and beautiful and fucking charming, she said. I don't know what world she was living in, because our living room walls were fucking purple. It's beautiful if you're trying to furnish the interior of a clown car, sure.

But she wouldn't listen. She bought the lamp.

Skip ahead more than twenty years, and I can tell you how I got here. It starts with me trying on this same hideous outfit, just hours before, in room 313 of this broken-down motel, and the lamp is right there. But I'm not paying any attention to it yet. I'm too busy looking at something else revoltingly hideous: myself.

What I'm wearing is not a corset exactly—a real corset would've taken those extra inches off my waist, right. It's something that could've been picked up and dusted off the floor of a Hot Topic. My gut is jutting out, revealing itself in the space between my top and my short tutu. My belly is not spared of hair. Arms, legs, everything. Sasquatchesque.

But from the waist up, I look good. This shirt is made for small-breasted women—luckily, I am one of those. Well, maybe I'm not a woman, but I have bitch tits. When Kenny handed me this top, I imagined a vacant space where the boobs belong. But I suppose my bitch tits are bigger than I thought. Cheetos do the trick.

I model for Stripe, who is on the bed, indulging himself in a stick of celery. I rotate. Curtsey.

Stripe loves it. At this point, I'm still thinking things will work out for us. Once I settle down in my pile of cash, me and him will run off together in the sunset. I'll buy him a jetpack. We'll share spaghetti. We'll make friendship bracelets.

I wonder if Kenny washed this outfit.

"Did you wash this," I ask Kenny.

Kenny shrugs, taking a hit on his joint. "I never thought about washing it." He exhales.

"Why."

"Do I really seem like the kind of guy to consider hygiene when asked for lingerie. I'm not like, 'oh, Craig needs some kinky shit, let me just run this through the wash a few times and give him a breezy fresh pair of thongs.' This is real shit."

Real shit? Does he think it's not authentic prostitute attire if it does not smell ripe and crusty? "That is the exact opposite of how you should think. I'd really prefer it if you did give me some breezy fresh thongs, I'm not exactly looking for crabs."

The tutu hugs my hips, which makes my love handles especially lovely. Kenny and I aren't the same size. I didn't take this into account before I considered trying on his lingerie.

"This is chafing my balls," I say. These particular panties are made of black and pink lace. They are lovely. But they are not made for people with balls. The thing is, I've always loved women's lingerie. I love it so much that as a child, I was disappointed when my mother first told me I couldn't wear pretty things too. She should have warned me about the balls.

"Maybe if you didn't have such massive balls, it wouldn't be a problem," Kenny says, Cheeto crumbs caking the corners of his mouth.

"Leave them alone, man. They're my balls."

"You ever think, like, your brains are actually in your balls, though? Because. Like. I always feel dumber after I'm kicked there. Or after wearing balltight pants. You lose brain cells."

"Right," I agree, scratching my nutsack.

"You want another hit?"

I nod.

This doesn't seem like a good idea yet.

I wonder if it will after a few more hits.

It doesn't. And that's when I become transfixed by the evil lamp. Whoever decorated this hotel had taste as awful as my mother's. It registers in my mind that I know this lamp. It's fat. Why would you design a lamp shaped like my body. Or the color of my poop. Which this lamp happens to be. I guess it depends on what I eat though.

"My mother had that lamp," I state, nonchalantly snatching Kenny's bag of Cheetos from the table. That's what he gets for letting his guard down.

"Aw, does someone have mommy issues," Kenny coos, straightening his own straps. His outfit's nicer than mine, I think.

"I really hate that fucking lamp and I'm sick of looking at it."

"Stop looking at it."

I try. It's a small-ass room.

The lamp is unavoidable. Haunting me. Following me. Whispering.

"I need it out of here," I say. Stripe doesn't like it either. I can tell by the way his beady eyes dart in that general direction. He is a man of unfiltered emotion—he is an open book, he is poetry.

I cannot make a better life for Stripe while this lamp remains in the room.

Kenny flicks his wrist at me. "Fine. I have no attachment to that lamp, get it out of here."

"You dare me."

"I dare you to throw it off the ledge," he says, pointing to the balcony door with his toes. We're fucking grown-ass men, and he's daring me.

"You think I won't," I say, approaching the lamp. I got this. This in itself should prove I mean my words. I am high, and I am moving. That is how much I hate this fucking lamp.

"You don't have the balls."

"I've got balls and they're huge."

"You don't need to tell me you have balls, Craig. I can see them."

"What."

"Your ballsack is poking out of your panties." Maybe it's sexy. Little glimpse of ballsack. That's what it's all about, right. Leaving little to the imagination.

"You're still looking at my balls, Ken."

"They're really fascinating."

"Whatever. I'm throwing the lamp. Watch me."

"Pass the Cheetos."

"No. I need these."

"You're throwing the lamp."

"Throwing lamps does not impair my Cheeto consumption ability. I'll show you."

With the bag of Cheetos under my arm, I bend over and wrap my hands around that bitch-ass pumpkin lump as if to strangle it. Bending over gives Kenny an ample view of my nutsack.

Can't be shy about my nutsack.

"Get the door," I say. "I am holding a lamp."

Kenny gets the door.

I step onto the balcony and kiss that lamp goodbye. Except I don't kiss it. Because I fucking hate it. I just let that piece of shit fall. My mother never would've let me do this to her lamp. I feel a sense of retribution. A tying of loose ends. Goodbye, ass lamp. It's even like all those scarring childhood memories fell with it: getting stupid thin pizza at birthday parties, getting smacked square in the face by red rubber balls, some douchebag in first grade putting water in my apple juice thus making it taste like piss!

That's it. It is over. Take that, world. This is what I think of your fucking lamps.

This is what I think of your fucking lamps and your children and your children's children and the corrupted wormhole of mankind we're all getting hopelessly suckered into, also those hangnails that hurt like fuck, you can shove those up your ass too. Also, there is a place in hell for broken escalators, otherwise known as fucking punk-ass stairs—

There's a scream, a crunch, a shatter-thunk.

I lean over the railing to view the damages. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I rest the Cheetos on the rail—sadly, they fall too. I never wanted to see them go. I don't know which to look at first. But I find may eyes fixated on what's totally probably now a corpse. Or slowly on its way to becoming one. Don't go towards the light, little bro. I kinda wanna scream but what I say just comes out as a slow, near-yawn. "Did I just kill a guy."

I turn around—Kenny's sitting on the bed, looking at me quizzically.

"Kenny," I say. "I killed a man. I dropped the Cheetos."

He springs off the bed, crying, "Woah! Woah, woah, woah. You dropped the Cheetos?"

"FUCK!" I don't want to look again, but almighty mother of balls, I look again. It's getting bloody. The body is sprinkled tastefully in our Cheetos. "Fuck, Kenny, fuck! WHAT THE FUCK! I JUST—DID YOU—" I point a frantic, cheese-coated finger at the scene below.

Kenny looks. At first he's like, "what happened to that guy." But I continue sputtering, and a look of horror registers on his face as he stares down at the body.

"Oh, fuck, son! You did that—fuck—oh god—do you know what this means! We're fucked! You're fucked! I'm fucked! We're all fucked! But mostly you! You are fucked!" he cries, arms flailing all over like limp noodles.

"I'm gonna die, Ken," I say. "I deserve to die! Oh god, tell Stripe I love him!" Tears are welling up in my eyes. I thought getting rid of the lamp would be good for Stripe, but—but—

"Fuck you, man! We have to do something!"

"Do something? _Do something_?" Maybe he has ideas, maybe he can turn turn back time, except not, because we're boned. I feel like I'm standing in line for buttsex from Lucifer.

"Let's skip town—grab the weed—we're fucking outta here—"

"They're gonna know it's me! There's Cheetos on him!"

"Eat the Cheetos, then!"

"I don't want to eat corpse Cheetos!"

"If he's still a little alive, they won't be corpse Cheetos—just like, twitching bloody body Cheetos!"

"Fuck you, Kenny! We gotta get out of here! They're going to find us! They're going to take my babushka from me! Hurry! Hurry! Pack your shit."

"Okay, I got the weed—Craig, grab the Cheetos—"

"I can't grab the fucking Cheetos because we lost the Cheetos when I dropped them off the balcony onto the corpse of the man I killed! Don't tell me to grab the Cheetos! Take this fucking situation seriously! Oh, Stripe! Stripe! What will become of my baby?"

"Get your shit together and hide the evidence!"

"I'm gonna piss my pants—I'm gonna _piss my pants._"

"You're not wearing pants."

"Oh—sorry—I'm gonna piss my thong. No, _your_ thong! Merry Christmas! You're gonna have to get your crusty ripe prostitute gear cleaned at a fuckin' dry cleaners!"

My face is warm with tears, and I feel a familiar rush—my crotch is growing warm with piss.

Kenny obviously smells something, looks at my crotch, and his face warps out of proportion. "Oh god, you're peeing. You're actually peeing! This is not helping the situation. They're gonna come in here, and they're gonna be like, 'There is urine on the floor,' and we'll be like, 'Yeah, it was the guinea pig.'" He thinks he's got a story for the piss now, cute.

"Don't bring Stripe into this!" Seriously. Stripe only fucking pisses in his cage. He's well-trained. He'd never pee on me. And if I let him borrow my thong, he wouldn't piss in it. He's courteous. And in control of his bladder. I'm out of control.

"You bring Stripe into everything! Why the fuck not!"

There's no time for this. I want to tell Kenny that I bring Stripe into everything because he's the light of my life, the apple of my eye, and he's never gotten me into a situation like this, unlike Kenny. A situation in which I need some fucking towels. "Get me some fucking towels, man! I gotta clean up the piss! In your thong!"

Kenny grabs a towel from the bathroom floor and throws it at me.

Let me tell you, when the floodgates open, they really open. I've started the procedure. There is no end in sight. I don't think a sponge exists in the world that is absorbent enough to sop up this almighty piss. I blot to no avail. And then I notice something about the towel—

"Why is this towel stained?" I inquire.

"Well, we used up all the toilet pap—"

"AM I WIPING MY PISS WITH SHIT! I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU—"

I can't finish my thought because bitches be knockin'.

"Craig, Craig, forget the piss and the shit! We really gotta get outta here!" He's looking out the bathroom window. "You think we could jump? Is it worth it?" He sounds sincere. Maybe we should jump, it's only three stories, right.

But then the gears start turning. "NO, WE'LL BE SPLAYED ON THE GROUND LIKE THE LAMP! We gotta own up to this, Kenny. There's no way out. I gotta man up and open the door."

I wasn't manned up enough, because a lot more time had passed than I initially thought—still coming down from the high—and when I saw the glare of police badges, I'd have pissed myself, but, you know, that was already taken care of.

That's it. I'm caught orange-handed. It was so important for me to sop up the piss, but I didn't do a damn thing about the artificial cheese residue on my hands.

They ask what's going on here. Funny question. I hope they brought popcorn. The white cheddar kind. I don't know what to say. I'd like to see you know what to say right now.

"It's a—it's a Christmas party," I stammer. In my mind, the Cheetos are still here, so I thought that if they saw the Cheetos, they'd believe me if I said there was a party going on. I'm in the right attire for one. Maybe not a Christmas one.

The fat cop is like, "That dead man outside is your idea of a Christmas party?"

"Did you check him?" I ask. "Don't be jumping to conclusions. I think—I think I saw a twitch. Real shame, though. Who would use a lamp to kill a man. Where is the motive in that?"

"You wanna tell us, sir? It appears he's directly under this balcony, and—" he peeks in the room. "It's a little dim in there."

Okay, they really are jumping to conclusions here, not every motel room comes equipped with two whole lamps. The lamp may as well have come from a balcony miles away. The wind blew the scene here.

Bodies. Lamps. Blowing in the wind.

I always imagined myself being a lot sassier with the cops. Charm and charisma could get me out of anything, which would be great if I kind of had some of that stuff, maybe. I always wanted to be the kind of guy who could make eye contact with you and in that moment, convince you to give up your job as CEO of Taco Bell and hand the position over to me. One of those guys who digs your fears and hopes out of you just by asking you how you are.

Asking people how they are appears to be the extent of my charisma, so I look at Kenny to continue playing that card for me.

"Well, that's that. Craig's fucked, I guess. See ya guys!" says Kenny with a big dumb grin. He dared me to throw the lamp. He's just as responsible as I am. Maybe even moreso. Dares have got to hold some power in the eyes of the law. You can't say no to a dare or you're a pussy.

Luckily, as he's trying to wiggle out of the door with his duffle bag, the police stop him. The fat one is preparing his handcuffs, and the moustached one is searching his bag.

"Put your hands behind your back," says the officer to Kenny.

"Aww man, I don't wanna be arrested. I don't have time for this. I gotta—I gotta go grocery shopping! Aww, shit, why are you putting those on my arms, that hurts." He's struggling all over the place. Why are they cuffing him first, like he's the monster, when I am the true monster. I could've refused the dare, asked for a truth instead, admitted to Kenny how I liked wearing my sister's panties.

"You got a lotta marijuana, huh," says the cop searching his bag.

"This ain't mine. This all belongs to Craig."

He's still trying to screw me. Wow.

"It is labeled Kenneth," points out the officer.

"Aw, shit. Well you guys are Jews right? I got lots of cash in this bag and it's all yours if you let me go. I didn't kill anyone, it's just weed, that's not an actual serious crime, right? I had a Jewish friend growing up. What is it, like, the eleventh night of Hanukkah?"

"You better watch what you say, boy."

The cop grabs Kenny's duffle bag and shoves him roughly out the door as he shouts, "Fine, stick your fucking menorah up your ass, you bitch, I bet you like that!"

The fat cop gets to me next. Fuck the police. Seriously. I am dealing with police shit, and the one thing I have to say to the police is, fuck you.

They don't understand, they think we're villains, bad guys, whores, drug dealers, all that shit, and maybe Kenny is a whore, and I am a whore in training after all, but really, we are good people. The true culprit is the lamp.

They should handcuff the lamp—what's left of it, at least. I mean—it's easy to handcuff a lamp. It can't escape. It can't fight. It can't stab. Initially, it'd be arrested for being ugly. What if I get arrested for being ugly? The lamp can't answer questions when it gets interrogated, so obviously it'd be guilty. Prison. Because I was provoked. And ugly. Could I plead insanity? Say the lamp spoke to me, that it whispered in my ear at night "_kill"_?

"Am I gonna be arrested for being a prostitute?" I blurt. _An ugly prostitute?_ Dunno why I asked that. Was going to ask how possible it is for me to plead insanity. But then I might get put in a mental ward. I'm high, does that make me less responsible for my actions? This gives weed a bad fucking name. Before all they could say was it made you lazy and hungry. Now cops can tell middle schoolers it makes you into a lamp murderer. I can't blame the weed, the weed is good, I'm just a dumbass. I must look insane with piss dripping from Kenny's thong. I'll go with the insanity thing. "I am insane!" I cry. That might have sounded convincing.

"Are you or are you not offering sexual favors for money?"

Ohhhh so they're clinging onto the prostitute part. I thought the fact I might be insane would be more important. Sure shows where their priorities lie. Oh, America.

Well, I guess I should clear this up honestly. "I'm not a prostitute! Not yet! I was just trying on the outfit. Is that gonna add to my sentence?"

"Sir, we cannot arrest you for wearing women's lingerie. Come on." He urges me out.

"What about Stripe! Stripe! My guinea pig!" I wail. But they don't give a shit, they're not listening, I guess they know I'm harmless, that I really am just that fat man stealing the honey ham, but they still gotta lock me up for stealing that honey ham.

We're in the back of the car now. Without Stripe. "What about Stripe?" I press. I haven't given up. I am not giving up. I need my guinea pig. He could get used to life in jail. He's behind bars all the time. He could totally come with me. Except I wouldn't want him making friends with the vermin. Stripe is fucking high class.

"What are you talking about, sir?" Finally acknowledging me. Well then.

"Stripe is what he calls his nine inch dildo," says Kenny.

The cops are talking into their little talkies. Who the fuck decided to call them walkie-talkies anyway? That sounds like fucking baby shit. Why wasn't it something cool and official, like…. Like. Well, maybe walkie-talkie is a good name. Anyway, they're tattling on us. So we're kinda just sitting in the back waiting for them to scold us and hopefully consider we're innocent as shit and let us go home with a warning. "Don't kill people," they'd say. "It's a bad idea. Don't let it happen again. Merry Christmas." And that's it!

Kenny nudges me with his shoulder. He's handcuffed, too. "Hey. Hey, dude. If... if we die tonight, I just—I just want you to know I lied. You're actually too ugly to be a prostitute."

I'd punch him if I weren't handcuffed. I lean in towards the officer in the front seat. "It's okay, officer. It's just been brought to my attention that I'm too ugly to be a prostitute. I have nothing to live for. Except for my GUINEA PIG, WHO IS BACK AT THE ROOM, MISSING MY NOURISHMENT—"

The cop doesn't even look up. "Calm down, sir. We're going to take care of the animal. Sit tight."

"I AM SO TIGHT THAT MY BALLS ARE FINDING THEIR WAY INTO MY ANUS, OFFICER."

That's another thing I shouldn't blurt. But you know, when you're wearing panties that are riding up on your balls, that's always kind of—riding up on your mind.

But there you go. That's how I got here. Sobbing about my guinea pig, resenting the wedgie in my women's underwear, sitting in a police station with a guy I thought was my friend but who apparently thinks I'm too ugly to be a prostitute.

Yeah.

I am a monster.


	2. gruyère

a/n: warning: there could be material in this chapter sensitive to the christian religion so read at your own risk

if you got a problem you can take it up with flipper's soft body

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chapter two: gruyère

[tweek]

When rats are born, they are naked.

From the foot of my bed, I look on as Petunia gives birth to the third baby in her litter. She's walking around in circles, just leaving babies behind, like she has no idea she's giving birth. Sometimes, she rubs up against the wall, squeaking in pain. Her tail is bloody. I clutch Flipper the Penguin to my chest and watch the hairless, fleshy, curled-up dumpling of a creature poke its head out of the furry portal to the universe. Baby rats look like they're not done. Like uncooked meat. They're marinated in placenta, which Petunia licks off. I wouldn't let my mom lick me.

They are emerging from the womb, and I am still trapped in mine. Encased in its warmth, kept safe, suffocating. Or maybe it's all the smoke and incense and leftover lo mein and must in the air that makes it so hard to breathe. I crawled into this womb, let it become my cocoon, this hardened, crusty cocoon made of Easy Mac residue. One day I'll have so many leftover Easy Mac containers, I won't know where to sleep, but then, maybe the Easy Mac containers will take shape of my bed and I will lie in the scent, and the cheesy-orange cream will embed itself in my skin and run through my blood and turn it into a viscous artificial cheese. My cluttered Easy Mac infested womb is gross.

But the thing is, when I emerge, I, too, am naked.

The babies don't look like they mind their nakedness, though. I like to believe they are happy, even though their mother is about to slobber all over them. I'd wish I were a baby rat, but I'm sure they have responsibilities to grow into too. Like gathering food for their families. If I were any creature, I'd probably find a way to be dissatisfied, even being the laziest animal. Like a sloth—they sleep all day. But they need to find the right tree to sleep in. Maybe some imperialist birds want to take over the sloth's branch. He's not gonna take their shit. He's half-asleep. So now he's gotta get up and move to some other tree. At least I get to sleep in my own bed all the time, and I never have to move more than a few feet to get there. Besides, the assumption that animals are happier and simpler implies that the human race is actually as smart and superior as it thinks it is. But to an outsider, wouldn't we just appear to be programmed by nature too? Some intelligent species observing us wouldn't see our deep, dark thoughts, they'd see us fucking and killing. Because we're slaves to our nature no matter how much we contemplate it. So maybe animals do have existential crises. How sad would it be if we discovered every animal has depression? I hope Petunia isn't depressed.

So far none of the babies are stillborn. That's what I thought about most when Petunia started stealing more of my Wheat Thins and getting bigger. I had visions and dreams of these stillborn rat babies, and then the images that haunted me were gorier, with severed little rat baby heads.

But Petunia and her babies will be okay, maybe. It's a Christmas miracle. Maybe everything will be okay forever. Maybe I'm not a piece of shit. My face is damp with tears—I wipe them away with Flipper's soft body.

David Mitchell is watching over me. He's making sure the babies are safe—that must be it. Because he is my British king. Painting him on my wall was one of the better decisions I've made while high—along with putting my disability check toward ordering four economy-sized boxes of Easy Mac to my door. The same-day shipping was expensive. But I was so hungry.

David is perfect. Sometimes his comedy makes me laugh until I can't breathe, and then other times, he makes me cry when his dry wit reveals something about the human condition that tears at my very soul. I love him. And I love his face. It's pasted in the center of the pasty potato-shaped blob that is his head. His eyes are bulgy, a deep, appetizing chocolate brown—his lips are perfectly shaped, and it's all topped off with the beautiful, convex centerpiece that is his nose. His teeth are jagged, erratic, wonderfully placed in front of one another. I hope he never gets dental attention.

And he is disproportionate. His head is large, fat, squishy all around. I'd love to smush that face, move it around, mold it like Model Magic—so long as it returns to its original state. A flip of dark brown hair is always falling over his forehead. The rest of his body isn't as fat as his face would make him look. It's like all that pizza he eats just goes to his neck. His arms and legs, they are limber and lovely. But I only painted his head. I made it so large that there was no more space.

A sudden pounding on the door startles the shit out of me. What fucking asshole is here? Don't they know Petunia is trying to give birth? Nothing could be more important than that.

It might be my mom, though. She told me she might stop by. If it's my mom, I feel guilty about the fucking asshole thing.

She'd worry if I didn't answer. Fuck. Do sloths have to deal with this kind of shit? I reach for my bottle of Klonopin, which rests on the shitmountain next to my bed that serves as a nightstand, and pop three pills dry before trying to get my ass up.

My body is heavy—I haven't been out of my bed much since I got back from the hospital, and standing reminds me of that. The overdose was two whole days ago, but something is still off. I'm hazy. My head is spinning. I feel like I've lost my balance. I think my body is angry with me—I already treat it so badly, and it is really pissed that I had to take three bottles of Ambien on the same night. I want it to understand—I was upset. Petunia was being moody and weird. My body needs to forgive me already. I feel at least eighty times more awful than normal.

Another knock. I plod through the magazines and clothes and Easy Mac containers that litter the one path that cuts through the shitmountains.

Hesitantly, I unlock the door and open it only a few inches—as far as the chain will allow and no more.

Much to my dismay, it's the old Christian lady who ratted me out for what she calls the "sandwich debacle."

Apparently when I take ninety Ambien, I make sandwiches with soap and stick them in mailboxes.

She smiles very sourly, presents a small black book to me. "You're not going to find Christ at the bottom of a pill bottle, sweetie."

I hate this woman. Is she serious right now? If there were a Christ, he'd be at the bottom of a bottle of Klonopin. Two days ago, I would've said Ambien, but now I'm less sure about that. Either way, I would've already found him. "I'm not looking for Christ."

She tries to sneak a peek inside my apartment, making my heart race. I push the door closed slightly more, leaving the smallest crack. She pushes it back, but I am not having it. "But Christ is looking for you."

"I'm not interested!" I say. I want her to leave me alone. I want everyone and everything to leave me alone. If Jesus himself came to my door, I'd say the same.

"Just a peruse?" she persists.

Maybe she'll leave if I take it.

"All right," I say. "I will peruse it."

I am actually thinking about how maybe it would be good for stabilizing my wobbly table. It sucks when two out of four legs are uneven—one is held up by one of my mother's fruitcakes. If I put the bible underneath the other leg, it will not help much. This bible does not have the same dimensions as the fruitcake. Anyway.

I accept the thick black book and say, "I have to go. I'm busy. Petunia is giving birth," before slamming the door in her face. She tried to wish me a merry Christmas. Despite all the good intention in that, I'm not accepting those right now.

I flop back on my bed—more gently than I would normally flop, so as to not disturb Petunia, because having a fucking visitor has probably already stressed her out enough. That is the worst time to shove religion in someone's face. In the middle of fucking labor? Like, "I know there are small organisms creeping out of your inner abyss right now, but how would you like to hear the word of our lord Jesus Christ?" I hate people. I wonder if I should share my pills with Petunia. They give them to rats in labs, right?

I'm feeling nice and sleepy and calm, but I know I shouldn't take my eyes off her. To keep myself awake, I flip through the Bible. This doesn't have as many pictures as the books I usually read—mostly trippy art books, which are gifts from my mother.

This whole dumb book. All words. And I usually skip the words. But I guess I have no choice here.

My eyes fall on a sentence—"The hand of the diligent will rule, while the slothful will be put to forced labor."

Geez, these people are uptight. I already knew you weren't supposed to be gay, which pretty much disproves the existence of the Christian god, because no god would be cruel enough to create David Mitchell and then make it wrong for me to love him. But you can't be lazy either. Nothing about this is okay. Gluttony is a sin too. The population is thickly fat, lazy, and gay. Not necessarily all at once, but I don't exactly see this book as the number one guideline for life in America.

Attempting to follow it probably leads to rampant self-hatred and guilt. I don't need a book to make me feel like more of a fuckass.

On another random page, I see, "You shall regard them as detestable; you shall not eat any of their flesh, and you shall detest their carcasses." This sentence is referring to shellfish. Well, they got that part right. I'd never eat shellfish. That's disgusting. It's like licking beach sand or something.

I tear out the page with the shellfish and hold it up to the light. It's a very nice, thin page. Good for nests. Petunia likes nests—she makes them with the cardboard from multipacks of Easy Mac, my art books, supermarket coupons. Right now, she needs to tend to her fucking babies. She's probably not going to make a nest right now.

But the babies should probably be on something that isn't my carpet. My carpet smells like cat piss. I don't have a cat. I don't think I pissed on it. But maybe I did. I've done a lot of things I can't remember.

I start ripping out bunches of pages. It's very easy. It's like the book was asking for it. I set them down in a pile on the floor, inches away from where Petunia is curling up in pain. I want to reach out and pet her, but she's never let me touch her before. I use one of the pages to clean splotches of blood off the rug.

There are four babies scattered about in this corner, flailing around like excited beans. I don't want Petunia to crawl back into her hole and forget a baby or two. I highly doubt this, but what if? So I carefully pick up each one—extremely fucking carefully—and place them onto the bible nest. They're slimy.

This nest is kind of like a manger. And I made Petunia and her babies a nest out of pages from the story of Jesus itself. Woah. Petunia is the Virgin Mary. Except she's no virgin. She's still totally worthy of god's children, but then maybe some asshole god who doesn't want me to love David Mitchell wouldn't be able to see that.

But this is my own nativity scene, with more than one Jesus rat baby wibbling around. Look at all these Jesuses. If someone told me Petunia's babies were here to save me, I'd believe them. Maybe this is the day everything turns around for me. Probably not though.

I resign myself to drowning my sorrows in World of Warcraft, nicotine, and a wank sock.

This is the extent of my sex life. To have sex, I'd have to be more than drugged. The thought of being around someone—even someone I like—just terrifies me, makes me feel sick. Not to mention I'd have to harness the responsibility to keep them happy, and they'd have to do the same for me—I can't handle that. I'm high maintenance. I'd too quickly find something I hate about them. I can barely be around my own mother. I don't even want to see her today. I love her, and I want her to hold me in her arms and tell me that everything is going to be okay. But at the same time, I squirm just thinking about that.

My whole life has been like this, cutting off contact from the world, little by little, until I am safer. Safer, yet more trapped. Trapped in my parents' house. Trapped by their warm hugs, their concerned voices asking if I'm okay, and it makes me shudder with guilt because I don't even really know what it feels like to be okay. Sometimes, I imagine myself in the middle of fucking nothing—just a white, blank background, and that seems so satisfying.

And now I'm trapped in this apartment. A thicker crust of cheese residue is enveloping me.

Trapped so that my mother's visit is a highlight of the day, second only to Petunia giving birth, yet knowing she's coming makes me want to pop at least four more Klonopin. So I do.

I wish I had more hands so I could more easily do my favorite activities simultaneously. I have a cigarette between my lips, my dick in my left hand, and the computer mouse in my right hand. There are no more hands left for me to pop pills or make Easy Mac or organize Petunia's young.

This is a serious flaw in my design. My useless piece of shit body can't even juggle those simple ass tasks.

There are tears in my eyes—fuck—seriously—am I crying? Crying and wanking?

I am definitely crying. Everything feels like it's crashing in all at once. And despite this I'm still hard, and I can feel pleasure growing in my stomach, threatening to overflow. I like to think that when it does overflow, all the things making my head heavy will escape with it.

I cum around the same time I give into sniffling. I don't even care about the fact that I'm having an orgasm. It's fucking nice to feel that momentary rush of pleasure. But in the end, who cares. I am just feeling even more like a piece of shit than usual and that is how my mother will see me. She would never say I'm a piece of shit—I don't think she'd even think it—but she just can't possibly be proud. I didn't graduate from high school—didn't even get a GED—and I'll definitely never graduate from college, and I'll never get married.

When she says she's proud, she means she's proud I stepped outside once, or proud I didn't overdose. Not any kind of normal proud. Just proud I pretended to put effort into something.

I lose a duel in Warcraft. Thoroughly useless. Can't even win at the game that symbolizes what a loser I am.

I'm so proud of Petunia. Petunia always makes me proud. She's popping out mad babies and I'm popping mad pills. In fact, four Klonopin was definitely not enough. I should be more like Petunia. Petunia provides for her family. I cannot even provide for myself.

I log off Warcraft and hold Manny the Worm to my chest, choking out unsteady sobs. So much—so much is wrong with me. I live in this swirly unclear world because of the pills, but at least on pills, I have the haze instead of the never-ending blackness.

And then—fucking banging on my door. I hate this. It's my mom. I gotta pull myself together for my momma. Manny helps me blot my tears.

But Manny says I have to do this on my own, so I put him aside and embark on my journey across the room, only tripping on an empty food box once. I am very good at weaseling between my shitmountains. Add that to my accomplishments. Proficient in navigating my own Easy Mac cocoon.

For my mommy, I undo the chain on the door. I slink out as quickly as I can, careful not to let anyone see inside—but mommy is considerate. She closes her eyes and promises me "I won't look."

"Hi, Mommy."

"Hi, pumpkin!" she holds up a huge aluminum tin. I can feel its warmth. Smells freshly cooked. "I brought casserole and fruitcake!"

Fuck yes. I can even out my wobbly table now. And I can give the casserole to Petunia and the babies. Everything works out. "Thanks, Momma," I say, taking the tin from her.

"What's new?"

"Um." Does she expect anything to be new, like, what fantastic, new and improved lump of mold has shown up in my apartment? "Well, uh, Petunia had her babies."

"Babies?" Mommy repeats. "Twins?"

"Yeah. Yeah, twins. I just got off the phone with her. Identical—no, they're a boy and a girl. Manny and Flipper."

She feels my cheek with her thumb, and wipes under my eye.

"Baby, have you been crying?"

The thing is, when someone asks you if you've been crying, it reminds you that you were crying, and that makes you want to cry. I can't do this, I can't break the fuck down in the middle of the hallway in front of my mom. That is just not going down. I bite my lip, hold back, and try to tell her no, but she knows I'm lying.

"Are you okay?" she asks. "What's wrong? You can tell me anything."

"Petunia was moody the other day," I say.

"Aw, honey, she was pregnant. Lord knows that's hard."

"I know, but it hurt."

"But you guys are okay now, right?"

"Yeah," I say. "Yeah."

"Anything else bothering you?"

"No."

"Aww, pumpkin, baby," she says. That must have been the least convincing "no" ever. "I think you've come a long way. You go to the doctor and pharmacy all by yourself!"

Doctors. And pharmacies.

Right.

"I think making a few more friends would really help you."

I want to get her off this subject, all this concerned advice, because it just makes me feel shitty.

"I made a new friend."

"In real life, or in World of Warcraft?" she asks, kind of chuckling.

"World of Warcraft," I admit truthfully. "He's a shut-in too. I think his name is Lucas."

"Where does he live? Maybe you could meet him."

What the actual fuck is she even trying to say. I don't like to leave my room, and neither does Lucas. That sounds like a great friendship. Two people who can't stand to go anywhere or be around anyone.

"Yeah, that sounds nice."

I don't like standing in the hallway. Anyone could come out and see me and smell me, and I'm sure I'm stinky. Close enough to smell me is too close. I don't even want my mom to smell me. I especially don't want my mom to smell me. But here she is, smelling me. Fuck. My fingers feel slippery, my palms are clammy. I'm going to drop this food.

"I just want you to be happy. I wish you would talk on the phone—I just love hearing your voice."

My mom is gazing into me in this way that makes me break apart inside because my insides don't like to be ogled. She is waiting for an answer, and I really can't give her one.

My armpits are so wet—Jesus, is it normal to sweat this much? Maybe my sweat glands are broken and they are just letting loose. No boundaries. Fucking perspiration everywhere. Oh god. a drop of sweat is actually dripping down my arm. My arm is Jell-O, and it needs to be fucking refrigerated before it gets too melty and can no longer grasp this tin of warm baked goods.

That's what I should be—a cup of Jell-O. In the refrigerator of someone who really fucking loves Jell-O and will definitely clean this Jell-O mold so they can make more Jell-O.

Jell-O mold—that sounds kind of nasty. That's what I'd probably actually be. Moldy Jell-O. Jell-O mold. My bathroom is moldy. Maybe the tiles are stuck together by Jell-O goo.

"Pumpkin," says my mommy. I guess I got kind of lost there. She's calling me back to this painful conversation in this suffocating hallway. I do not want to be in the hallway.

"I gotta go, Mommy!" The words bubble over. "I need to...I need to touch the fuzzy pink thing in the bathroom!"

She knows something is wrong, and I'm making her sad. "Baby," she coos. Pleading. But no, I'm not having this. No one gets me for more than a few minutes at a time. I am a diva. She doesn't get to be exempt from that just because she's my mommy.

"Merry Christmas, sweetheart!" she says. She doesn't want me to go so soon.

My shaky fingers grasp for the doorknob, but I don't turn it until she covers her eyes.

I slam the door behind me and take a few deep breaths. Fuck. I'm freaking out. Shit. I need a cigarette.

The pills I took before are not calming me the fuck down—fuck—fuck—I'd better take a lot more Klonopin and a handful of Ambien just for good measure. I should probably just go to bed because being awake feels terrible.

So I swallow the pills, smoke a few cigarettes. I prop my wobbly table with the fruitcake, and I leave the casserole tin by Petunia's new nest. She's still giving birth—I can't count how many there are. She's losing so much blood. If she dies, I won't know what to do with myself.

I'm stumbling all over my piles of boxes, I'm so woozy and dizzy. Whee.

I crawl under my blankies and snuggle into them, popping a few more Klonopin and some Ambien. Getting to sleep is so hard at night even though it's so easy to sleep in the daytime. Nighttime is when I feel most aware—when I would do something if I ever did anything. But since I'm a worthless piece of shit, I just sedate myself into what will inevitably be sweaty, restless sleep. I may truly be morphing into an Easy Mac cup myself—a used Easy Mac cup that sits there for months because it was eaten by some dirty asshole like myself, and really, what enjoyment is there to get out of life when I'm staring through a yellow layer of dried cheese guck. But the pills take me to a squishy wonderland where everything is light and airy and dreamy in my head, and everything is wonderful—it's wonderful, wonderful here.

When I wake up, my head is swimming. It might be morning. I don't know when each day blends into the next. Light makes my head hurt. The blinds were broken, so I covered the windows with tinfoil from my mother's casseroles. She was really happy when I kept asking her to bring them.

Fuck. I can't tell if what I feel is hunger or sickness. In my stomach, there's a bubbling concoction of acid and rottenness and what could be death creeping up on me, but it turns out to be puke.

I lean over the rim of the toilet, gagging, letting chunky goo dribble pathetically over my bottom lip. It hurts. The toilet is rancid, rusty, off-white when it used to be on-white. And the furry pink cover doesn't redeem that. Like putting a big, pink ribbon on a turd.

Head throbbing, stomach heaving, throat burning, eyes watering, nostrils sizzling away, and fucking knocking on the fucking door again, what the actual  
flying

fuck

does

someone

want

from

me

right

now.

I'm dying on this grimy floor. Whatever they need can wait until I'm finally completely dead. I upchuck one more wad of shit from my esophagus before falling back against a pile of musty towels and screaming.

There's nothing like fresh vomit and fuckasses pounding at my door at fuck in the morning. These. Fucking. Assholes. I'll take my time with this. I'll smoke five whole cigarettes before answering that door. I'll paint a picture. Wank twice. Fuck them. But they keep knocking and my head keeps hurting and I don't think it'll work if I cry out that no one is home.

I try to peel myself off the floor. So weak. I'm jelly. Fuck. No. I quit. I need pills. pillspillspillspillspills.

I have to get up for pills. Why can't I just wear a contraption around my head that spoon-feeds them to me when I need them. That would solve the problem I have not having enough limbs.

Finally, I get up, bones cracking in several regions. I flush the toilet. Splash my face with cold water, then rinse my mouth. The taste of bile will not go away. Smacking my lips and swallowing, I hear the door getting beat again and I am starting to get homicidal.

I pop Xanax. I eye the door. I wonder if they're still there. It's probably been a whole five minutes.

I put my hand on the doorknob, but I'm nowhere near ready to open it. "Go away, I'm masturbating!"

"Police," I hear.

FUCK.

"We have a warrant to search your home."

"NO!"

"Please open the door, sir. We need to take a look around—we have reason to believe there is suspicious activity—"

"Nothing's going on here! Go away!"

"We can break down your door if need be."

Fuck! There is no room for the door to land—I can't live without the barrier between me and the real world—but who am I kidding? I'm about to die. My life is over so I don't need a door. I try to calm the fuck down. I rummage for Xannies, take them dry, and hide the rest of them. I open the door by restriction of the chain, just to check if they're real cops.

They smell like coffee and doughnuts, so I assume they're pretty real. They flash their badges, too. I trust the doughnuts more. One of them is chubbier than the other, and there's icing from his doughnut in his moustache. This guy woke up and enjoyed some fucking doughnuts and is going to continue living his life enjoying doughnuts, but my life is over. I'm also like, weeping. Pretty sure innocent people don't weep and resist and tell the cops they're masturbating—what if they're Christian cops? Then I'm in for it big time. I'm going to be executed in hell itself.

Upon stepping in, the moustache cop says, "Sir, this is a poor living environment."

That's a bit of a quick conclusion. I don't want to agree with the police. "No, it's not," I quickly spit.

They step over the crap, looking closely, probably desperate to find a bare patch of floor they can step on. There are hardly any.

Then, they break out the flashlights. The lighting is perpetually dim thanks to the tinfoil on the windows. Through a slit, I see the morning sunlight. They'd better not take off the tinfoil. My eyes will melt out of their sockets.

"Hoarding is a disorder and can be treated," says the skinnier cop.

Being a nosy cock is a disorder and can be treated by my fist in your face. "Oh," is all I say.

"Do you feel like something bad will happen if you throw anything out?" he continues. This guy has probably been watching fucking Hoarders. He probably thinks this is fascinating.

"My mom will die!" I blurt, giving him exactly what he wants. I better cool it with the truthy things. If they poke any more, I'll shit. The nervous poop is sitting in me—I can feel it.

They get to the corner between my bed and the kitchen; Petunia's house. They gasp a little. It's dumb. "Are you aware you have vermin?"

Fucking rude, how would they feel if I called their friends vermin? "Of course I'm aware of her!" I tell them. "She's not a pest. Be careful. She's a new mother."

The cops blink at me. "Your home violates several health codes. You should be moved out of here immediately."

That's the opposite of what I want to hear because A) they're acting like they give a shit about my living conditions, and B) by "moving out of here" they certainly mean "moving out of here into a terrible prison cell where you'll live with some terrible asshat you don't know."

"No! No, no, no!" I cry at them. I want to kick them out, don't I have the right to? I don't know what would happen if I did. This is a lose/lose situation. There's nothing I'd love more right now than dying.

"Do you take drugs, Mr. Tweak?"

They know my fucking name. I'm over. My name is going to be over. They've finally gotten straight to the point—I see cops like to play emotional games, too. The fuckheads.

I foresaw this years ago—but fuck, I forgot my plan—tell them half the truth, that's what it was. Just can't tell them the wrong half.

"Yes, I—I take prescription pills." I repress the feeling of puking again. I twiddle my fingers behind my back. I'm too guilty. Not cut out for this. can'tbreathecan'tbreathecan'tbreathe.

"Can we take a look at the prescriptions?" Moustache asks. It's a rhetorical question. They're going to look at them anyway. I guess it's time to lie, but before I can focus on a good one, I just gurgle, "I—I don't know where they are."

"Well, I guess that's why we're here, then. To look at those prescriptions, yeah?"

Is bluntness okay in this situation? "I'd like it if you'd just... leave." Why don't I have a verbal filter? Everything comes out naked. I'm so naked right now. They should just cuff me already to make the pain go away.

"We're going to ask you a few further questions before we take our leave, sir." Moustache clicks off the flashlight. Then he crosses his arms. "These drugs are only for personal use? Legally acquired from a licensed doctor?"

"Yes, yes, I—I have ADHD, and—anxiety—and stuff." Obviously. God, I'm shaking so much. Why am I even answering these questions? I have the right not to, don't I? I'm probably going to say something incriminating and get myself in worse trouble. I want my mommy to do the talking for me. Or to tell them I'm not going to answer until I can get a lawyer. Something like that. I don't have the strength to stand up to them, though. "M-My doctor prescribes me."

"That's all very well, but we found a prescription with your name on it in a motel room at the scene of a crime, in addition to a drug dealership. Now we're going to ask to see those prescriptions again." Oh. Right. And in that moment, my brain shrivels like a prune and falls down my spine, and then my spine collapses and I become eel-like, and my intestines disintegrate and my heart bursts into ten million pieces, and all the remains of my innards pour out my rectum.

Why did I have to take ninety Ambien, why did I have to trade my Ritalin to get more, why, why? I could've paid in money—if only I ever had cash and not just my mom's card—hell, I could've taken the pills out of the bottle—I just wasn't thinking. I'm never thinking. I left my apartment to do that drug deal, that's how desperate I was, but I was a little proud, and look where it got me. This is why I don't like to go out.

I'm somewhere else. My mind is set in a future of apocalyptic disaster. My mommy is crying as she gets taken away in chains, and sky scrapers are collapsing from nuclear explosions, and mothers and their children cower and huddle into shelters but it's too late because they're all already dead and it's all my fault.

"Seeing as you never throw anything out, surely those prescriptions must be here somewhere," says Moustache, calling me back. Looking annoyed that my eyes are wandering.

Well, shit. Can't get out of this one. I often forget most people are smarter than me. I'm still dead inside. Actually, no—I'm too alive. Everything in me is running and I want it to slow down. I'd take Klonopin. Can't. Cops looking at me.

I don't even know if I should find the pills myself and hand them over, or just let the men keep looking. They look so disgusted, like they don't want to search. I'm probably just imagining that, though. They've probably seen worse places. Right? Or maybe my place is that bad. I don't know. I guess I've never seen anywhere worse. But I've never been anywhere.

They ask again. "Can we please see the prescriptions?"

I can't win. I'm at a dead end. "Yeah," I say.

I open the top drawer of my nightstand. It's filled to the brim with orange bottles and Rx bags and the informational papers that came with them. It's not hard to find. The cops could have done their job better, I suppose. Making me do shit for them is unfair. They're already fucking up my day. I shouldn't be opening drawers for cops. I should be popping pills.

Pills.

Cops.

Pills.

Fucking cops, ogling my pills.

And all of them are there. Klonopin, Ambien, Xanax, Ativan, Prozac, Zoloft, Ritalin, Adderall, Percocet, Vicodin.

Moustache looks them over, raises his eyebrows, and says, "You're coming with us."

I'm so fucked—they're from all different doctors, and, well—a couple of those doctors, I've never actually seen, and a lot of them are unlabeled—bought illegally online.

i want my mommy i want my mommy i want my mommy

The cops are taking all my pills, those bastards, putting them in plastic bags, and it's the skinny one who handcuffs me, saying, "There will be help for you. Rehabilitation."

And I'm just bawling like a baby.

They don't know me. There is no help for me. There has never been help for me. Someone should go back in time to tell my mom that, to prevent her from wasting her money on all that therapy for me.

And with their cold, metal handcuffs, they lure me from my cocoon. To a cage. In a cocoon, you have a shot at breaking free. Emerging as a pretty butterfly. Or just something scared. But you can change. That's why cocoons exist. Cages are designed so you never get out.


End file.
